


Burden of Proof

by hexameters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts House Sorting, Love/Hate, Malfoy Manor, Pensieves, Pre-Epilogue, Romance, Slow Burn, The Malfoys - Freeform, The Sorting Hat, possibly latent drarry lol??, sorting hat discourse, the wizarding world actually reckoning with its broken society that allowed voldemort to thrive, the writer of this fic may be a sorting abolitionist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexameters/pseuds/hexameters
Summary: The wizarding world is at peace at last. A year has passed since Voldemort's defeat, and war hero Hermione Granger is itching to work for the Ministry and help bring the surviving Death Eaters to trial. And rumor has it that her boyfriend Ron Weasley wants to pop the question soon. All Hermione needs to do is graduate early and she can get to work.Meanwhile, at Malfoy Manor, Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius are on house arrest awaiting their trials. Embittered by slow legal proceedings and his tarnished family name, Draco no longer knows who he is. He is granted one respite: the opportunity to take his final exams at long last and formally graduate.So when Draco shows up at Hogwarts to take his N.E.W.T.s, he's surprised to see Hermione Granger there too. But when his father suddenly attacks Hogwarts and Ron falls comatose at his hand, Hermione must testify against the Malfoys. But something isn’t right with her memories...what happens when Hermione must ask Draco for help? Can she trust Draco? And can Draco redeem himself after all?





	1. Hermione

  _'O plunge your hands in water,_  
_Plunge them in up to the wrist;_  
_Stare, stare in the basin  
__And wonder what you've missed._

-"As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H. Auden

 

 

 

 

 

Hermione was doing something peculiar.

She was waiting for class to end.

“I expect nothing less than a robust, lengthy report on what we’ve been discussing in class for the past two weeks. Application of the subject as well as the theory. Due Monday, as you’ve known for some time now. No N.E.W.T. given in my subject will gloss over the magical properties of enchanted metals and woods, I can assure you,” Professor McGonagall peered over her glasses, letting the silence hang over everyone before giving a small nod. “Class dismissed.”

Hermione hoisted her bag on her shoulder as everybody else packed their things. She kept her parchment rolled in her hand. She had perfected her paper two nights ago in the glow of the Gryffindor common room’s fireplace, a gaggle of third years whispering and glancing at her from their perches. She had ignored them. The past year had taught Hermione a few things — how to live at Hogwarts without Harry and Ron, how to eat most of her meals in the kitchens away from her staring classmates, and how to cast silencing spells with increasing precision.

A Transfiguration assignment wasn’t difficult, especially when Hermione had spent months in the wild running from the darkest wizard to ever walk the earth. _Especially_ when said months were spent with limited resources, two teenage boys, and a constant feeling of dread. And especially when the only way to make tea during that time had been with a kettle that Hermione had transformed from a few scraps of metal somewhere between London and Gloucestershire.

Yes, writing a seventh-year paper on the Transfiguration was certainly not the hardest thing she had done in the past twelve months. She kept this in mind as she approached McGonagall’s desk.

"Professor, I wanted to hand this in today," Hermione said briskly, holding out her report.

McGonagall eyed the parchment. She looked slowly back up at Hermione.

"The paper is due tomorrow, Miss Granger.”

"Yes, but I have it now, so—"

“You may hand it in tomorrow with the rest of your classmates.”

“Yes, but I was hoping—”

"If you have something to say to me, why go through all of this trouble?"

Hermione stared. “Sorry?”

"Miss Granger, I had half a mind to hex you to your seat while teaching my class today. I have never seen a student so _fidgety_ ," McGonagall continued, a wry smirk on her face. "I have little reason to doubt you. I have almost no reason not to trust you — and despite the fact that you missed a full year of school, I cannot believe that you are here to ask me for academic advice."

Hermione did not speak.

"So I shall ask you again: Why are you coming up to my desk after a double session of seventh-year Transfiguration class?"

Hermione took a deep breath. This was not going as planned. “Well...I had a question about the N.E.W.T.s.”

McGonagall didn’t say anything, only bore her stare into Hermione.

“I was wondering if I could take them a little early. I believe,” she realized with annoyance her voice was climbing in pitch, “that I can be of help with the upcoming judicial processes at the Ministry. I’ve been talking to Minister Shacklebolt, and he says I can shadow the proceedings.”

“Typically, we do not allow such things. I do not issue the exams, Miss Granger,” she said airily.

Hermione’s heart fell. “I understand if you can’t accommodate me.” In truth, she didn’t want to wait until next year to take the N.E.W.T.s, but she could wait, couldn’t she? It had been some time, after all, since she had last taken a serious exam. The O.W.L.s of her fifth year were now three years ago.

McGonagall held up a hand. “But you are in luck. There has been an exception made for another student this year.”

“An exception?” she squeaked, trying not to give her excitement away. McGonagall had been the only professor at Hogwarts to treat her exactly the same as any other student since she had returned. In fact, she suspected McGonagall was somewhat overcompensating for the way the other professors treated her. Whereas Professor Flitwick had welled up with tears when she had sat down for her first class with him at the beginning of the year, McGonagall had immediately given her orders to corale the class’s summer homework. She had appreciated this, oddly. She didn’t want special treatment.

Well, until today, she thought sheepishly.

“A Ministry matter,” McGonagall continued. “The early exam will be issued during the last week of this month and into May. Do you feel equipped to take them early?”

She nodded.

“It will take place over several days, and one examination will overlap with the beginning of the Memorial Feast,” McGonagall peered at her through her glasses. “But I am sure you will be able to attend dessert, at least. Is that of terribly great importance to you?”

Hermione tried to read McGonagall’s tone. Was she expressing sympathy? She knew there were expectations for her to be at the feast. Ron and Harry would be there, as would the entire Weasley family. Neville would be making the trip and she knew the remaining members of the Order and her old classmates who had already graduated would attend. But instead of feeling reluctant, she felt relieved to be given an excuse to miss part of it.

She yearned to be like her peers at Hogwarts. Though she liked most of her classmates, there were entire conversations she couldn’t take part in anymore. Any reference to the academic year before was usually lost on her. Younger students could barely look her in the eye, making social events awkward. Even simple talk of romance would turn into a discussion about how lucky she was to be with _the_ Ron Weasley. Where once she had been asked about what subjects she liked the most and where she would like to work after school, people now liked to ask her if she missed her boyfriend.

“I can miss the beginning of the feast,” Hermione said quickly.

“So I will notify them of your intentions, and I will inform you of their answer.”

“Th-thank you, Professor.”

“And Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, “You needn’t be so apologetic. I have yet to compliment you.”

“Er, compliment?”

“I’m sure you’d like to join your friends who have decided to forgo their schooling,” McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly. She had written to Harry and Ron personally to attempt to persuade them to come back to Hogwarts. They had politely declined.

“It was important to me,” Hermione said quietly. She hadn’t seen Ron or Harry in several months now, though they exchanged letters when they could.

“You may leave your essay here,” McGonagall waved her hand, making herself busy with the notes on her desk. Hermione took this as her cue to leave. She placed her paper on the desk and made her way out of the classroom.

Reaching the door, she turned back to McGonagall. “Thank you again, Professor. I won’t allow this to impact my marks.”

McGonagall waved her hand. “Yes, yes. I seem to recall giving a certain girl a Time-Turner.”


	2. Draco

He sweat through his pajamas again.

Tonight, at least, he hadn’t strayed far from his bedroom. He blinked back the dark to see where he was. The quiet drip of water. Some dim starlight from a half-shut window. Cool tile under his feet. He had wandered to the kitchen in his sleep.

He felt his pockets for his wand but found nothing. He must have left it in the bedroom. He made his way back, fumbling through the dark as he ran his hands over the walls. He heaved a deep breath and shut his eyes tight, trying to forget the images that churned through his dreams.

Now that the fighting was over, Draco’s imagination had taken full control over his senses. Even when he was awake, walking down the halls of his own house, he couldn’t help but feel as though he would turn each corner and see the Dark Lord himself waiting for him. When he slept, he would wander around the house like a possessed man, only waking up when he ran into a wall or the morning light came. Sometimes it felt like he was never alone.

After all, had it really been so long ago when Malfoy Manor had been the headquarters of the Dark Lord?

 _As well as my fucking crazy aunt_ , Draco added bitterly.

There were still rooms he couldn’t go into, corners of the house he had grown up in that now seemed forbidden to him, lest he wanted to dredge up a memory of a screaming muggle or two — the memories were particularly bad when Bellatrix was involved for that reason. He shuddered.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Draco grabbed his wand from his bedside table and warily surveyed his room. The clock that hung near the door said it was four in the morning. Draco knew trying to fall asleep again would be useless.

He peeled off his sweaty clothes. Draco sighed with relief as the cool air made contact with his skin. He reached for a textbook. No use wasting time when he could be studying.

* * *

When the clock hit eight he put down his quill and looked out the window. He stretched, tilting his chair back to get a better look at the lawn. An Auror walked with a jaunty step along the perimeter of the black gates.

He reached over to draw his curtains shut. He didn’t have to be reminded of their presence this early in the morning. By now, he knew the schedule of Aurors by heart and could pick them out by their defining features, which is how he chose to identify them because he refused to learn their names. Quite impressive, considering that they all came through the house with regularity. The only way out of Malfoy Manor was by using the Floo Network with the Ministry’s own military-grade Floo Powder. A spell had been cast on their grounds that was similar to the one that was used on Hogwarts. Disapparating was only made possible if one walked several miles out from the border of the Malfoy’s acreage.

Of the Aurors, Draco knew of Baldy, who was frequently on the morning shift, half-awake, and the Scotsman, a rather old fellow who only ever wore plaid robes. Square Boots was the meanest of them—a young woman who expressed her distaste for the Malfoys every time his mother asked her not to step on the shrubs that lined the garden. This squadron of Aurors switched off every four hours or so, with at least two on duty at any given time. They guarded the manor and kept the Malfoys from leaving, not that they had ever tried to make a break for it.

He pulled on a silvery robe and nudged his feet into a pair of slippers. Time to see if his parents were awake. He never saw them in one place anymore. There were days when his mother wouldn’t get out of bed, and other days when his father would lock himself in his study, only emerging every so often to retrieve his meals himself.

A knock on the door. Draco’s shoulders stiffened.

“Mother?” he called out.

A woman’s voice came from the hall. “I have an appointment.”

He unlocked the door and found himself face-to-face with a woman his mother’s age dressed in sharp, expensive-looking business robes. A small, square golden pendant was her only jewelry. Her short black hair was pulled away from her round, pale face, which, paired with the darkness of the hallway and her clothes, gave her the look of a very professional full moon. She held out her hand.

“We haven’t met,” she said, her voice authoritative. “Opal DuBose. I’m from Valentine, Wandwell & Zhou.”

He shook her hand wearily. She had a firm grip. “You’re not our usual attorney,” he muttered.

“That’s correct,” she swung forward her viridian briefcase, which Draco eyed carefully. It was worn but well kept-after, the kind of fine dragonskin that only good money paid for. If she was an impostor, she had done her due diligence.

“Why don’t we step into the study,” he stepped out of his room. “And I can fetch my father for you.”

“No need,” she said. “I’ve arranged this meeting with you, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Right, and who did you arrange it with?” he rubbed at his temple.

“Your father.”

“Ah,” Draco sighed. His father had had a habit of letting important dates and meetings slip, leaving his mother and him to fend for themselves whenever a swarm of attorneys, Aurors, and houseguests descended. It was usually attorneys. “Pardon my state of dress,” he gestured at his robe, not sounding very sorry at all. A year ago, he might have changed into something more seemly, but he found himself caring less and less about his appearance.

“Quite alright. I’ve seen far worse from my clients.”

He ducked back into his room, grabbing a pair of trousers off the floor of his bedroom and pulling on the shirt he’d worn yesterday.

After he had dressed, he smoothed his hand through his hair, untangling the knots as best he could. This was the longest his hair had ever been—nearly to his chin now. He shut his bedroom door behind him and gestured to the hall. “And what is it that you need to tell me that can’t be done in a letter?” they hadn’t gotten any substantial news from the Ministry in months, save for the Auror detail schedule changing every few weeks. Whatever this woman had for him, he hoped for her sake it was good. He led her into the study. They sat in the two leather chairs in front of the oak desk. He turned to better face her, his hands placidly in his lap.

“You gave your testimony six months ago at the Ministry, yes?” she said.

“Yes. Our other man, Jonathan, was there,” he said. “Are you working with him?” He had grown to like Jonathan, a young man only a few years older than himself who seemed to have moved quickly enough up the ranks at Valentine, Wandwell & Zhou to take on such a large case. It would be work to get to know someone else entirely.

DuBose nodded. “He will stay on your father’s case, rest assured. But I’ve been assigned to your case as a result of what the judge decided yesterday. I have some very good news for you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, her expression still not giving much away.

He almost laughed. There wasn’t anything to look forward to, save for the end of the Malfoy family house arrest. But even that was depressing, since his father was almost certainly going to Azkaban again. He repressed a shudder, meeting DuBose’s gaze once more.

“Well then, go on,” Draco sniffed.

If DuBose was put off by his rudeness, she didn’t let on. “You’re being tried as a child. Your sentence will be far less severe than we had thought—”

“—I was of age last year,” he interjected. “How could I possibly be tried as a child?”

She set her briefcase on her lap, the silver clasps clicking open with a wave of her wand. The green sheen of the dragonskin caught the light. “Your sixth year is what is of interest to the Ministry, Draco.”

“ _Mr. Malfoy_ is fine,” he said, his teeth gritted.

“Apologies. As I was saying, _Mr. Malfoy_ , you testimony aligned well with what other eye witnesses gave in their statements. We’ll be arguing that you were too young to understand the full scope of your actions, and you were blackmailed by the Dark Lord—”

“Eye witnesses,” he said flatly. “Who?” he thought, briefly, of Professor Snape, who often floated in and out of his dreams without saying anything, blood only gurgling at his lips. But Snape was dead now.

She smoothed down the front of her blouse. He shifted uncomfortably as he waited for her to answer. “It was a very compelling witness, as you can imagine.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” he snapped. He hated being baited like this.

“Harry Potter,” DuBose replied.

“Potter?” he sputtered.

She pulled a file out of her briefcase. “I’m happy to provide you with the transcripts of his statement and questioning. I think if we can make sure to highlight the things he said in your testimony, we should be able to have a far less harsh sentence for you,” she closed the briefcase and set it carefully on the floor. “Mr. Malfoy, if I were you, I would count this as already won. This is the difference between spending the entirety of your youth in prison and a handful of years on probation.”

“Remind me why you’re on this case now?” Malfoy said slowly, processing this information. He felt his throat tighten. He gripped the sides of his chair.

“I represent minors at Valentine, Wandwell & Zhou.”

There were so many things racing through his mind that he couldn’t decide what to linger on. Perhaps it was the fact that he owed Harry Potter for his life not once, not twice, but now, for a third bloody time. There was also the part of him that had believed he would brave prison alongside his father. And then, crucially, the part of him that believed he deserved to go to Azkaban for all he had done. All he hadn’t done. All he had intended to do. This, he didn’t admit to anyone.

Malfoys do not admit their wrongs.

Well, at least, not unless it was in the presence of several expensive attorneys and the ever-dangling threat of a dose of Ministry-ordered Veritaserum.

“And what,” he swallowed, “is it that you need from me today that warranted meeting in person?” he said through gritted teeth.

“You have a court date,” she plucked an envelope from her case. “I’ve begun compiling your defense, and we’ll need to go over your questions extensively until you’re ready. Thankfully, Mr. Potter’s done most of the work for us. Reiterating his perspective will go a long way in persuading the judge to be lenient. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you twice that his name carries quite a lot of weight in this part of the Ministry, nowadays.”

“I’m aware,” he said.

“Well, I recommend studying his statement front to back,” she said, opening a file and pointing to a small stack of papers she had clipped together. “It would be helpful if you could know Mr. Potter’s words as well as you know the back of your hand.”

Draco shuffled together the papers, ignoring the strange twinge in his heart that felt something like hope for the first time in many months. He dared not entertain it.


	3. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes to the Burrow for the weekend to visit Ron.

“‘Mione!” a muffled sound came from a darkened corner of the Weasley kitchen. Hermione heard something land softly on the floor.

Hermione placed her bag on the kitchen table and turned around. Ron was leaning against the counter, half a sandwich at his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione smiled, taking in the sight of him for the first time in over three months. “Your mum told me at the beginning of the year I could drop by whenever I felt like it...but I haven’t taken her up on it until now.”

“Life at Hogwarts is that easy now? You didn’t need an invisibility cloak or anything?”

“I’m of age,” Hermione said, “ _and_ I asked for permission a few weeks ago. What did _you_ do today?”

“Same old,” Ron said. “You don’t have too much homework?”

“I’m ahead of schedule.”

“Well...brilliant,” he smiled. His grin seemed to glow. He looked slightly burnt, Hermione realized, from all the training he must be going through. Aurors-in-training did many of their drills outside. In fact, he looked more than sunkissed, although it did seem as though his freckles had multiplied...he looked healthy.

Ron’s lean build had a certain weight to it now, a sturdiness that the boy she had grown up with never possessed. This was better than the Ron she had seen so much of last year, even from last summer, when healing had been so difficult. When the three of them had had matching sets of sunken cheeks and tired eyes.

“Is anyone else awake?” she said.

“Just me,” he said. “So what are you doing all the way over there?” he said in a low, different voice. He hadn’t bothered to pick up his sandwich.

“Having a good look at you,” she said quietly. She breathed in the fresh, grassy smell that always seemed to radiate off of him. It was times like these where she felt like pinching herself. Could it be possible that she had made it out of the war alive? And that Ron had too?

He eased at her touch. She leaned into him. “I’ve bloody missed you,” he murmured into her hair. She pulled her head away and let her mouth find his just for a few seconds.

Ron looked at Hermione as though she was walking through the doorway for the first time again, the tips of his ears red, a smile threatening to give everything away. “Come on Granger, give me something to work with here,” he whispered before leaning his face into hers again. And this time, she ran her hands up his chest, her fingertips pressing into the thin cotton of his shirt. Ron's hands were making their way to her jacket's zipper. She felt herself respond with even more intensity, her fingers tugging at the end of his shirt, pulling it upwards. She managed to get his shirt halfway off.

"We," Hermione said breathlessly, "need to stop. Let’s go to your room,” she was finding it difficult to concentrate with his mouth leaving a trail of kisses on her throat.

"Do we?" his hand lifted up, playing with a lock of hair near her shoulder.

She froze, her hands hovering an inch away from Ron's skin. His t-shirt dropped back onto his torso, slightly lopsided.

She paused to straighten out her clothes and pull her hair away from her face. "Somebody could turn up at any minute."

"Doubtful, considering my family’s so small.”

“Ron.”

“What? My parents haven’t stayed up past nine since New Year’s. Peacetime means sleep time,” he wagged a finger. “And don’t forget that Ginny’s at Hogwarts. My brothers are all in their respective homes.”

“That’s not the point, Ronald Weasley,” she rolled her eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of, well, a bed. But if you’re not interested...”

“Hold on, who said I’m not interested?”

“Perhaps if you could lead me to a bedroom, you’d be able to show me exactly how interested you are.”

Ron sighed. “You’re not very exciting,” he teased.

“Your family eats in this room. I’m being considerate,” Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron sighed, walked over to her belongings, and hoisted them up, leading her out of the kitchen. They made their way up the many floors to his room.

“‘S kind of a mess, sorry,” he apologized, whispering as he let himself in. He put her bag down and Hermione looked around the familiar room, shutting the door behind her. She smirked—everything was more or less the same. Ron knelt down, grabbing and shuffling errant papers together and pushing them under the bed. He knocked over a few boxes of Extendable Ears that were teetering in a stack near the dor. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, of course. This is really the only option. Ginny’s charmed her room, and the twins’ roo—”

Ron halted, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Hermione grabbed Ron’s hand as if to steady him.

He looked at the ground, then he looked back at her.

Wordlessly, he turned, kissing her again. She pulled him close, deepening the kiss. His hands were on her waist, and her hands were rogue. They flitted over the fabric on his back, his sides, his hips—

“Mmmph,” Ron responded, tugging at her jacket. Hermione pulled away from him. She quickly slipped it off, but only after taking out her wand and muttering a few charms.

“What was that?” Ron asked. Hermione paused, helping him get his shirt off. She paused before answering, letting her eyes linger on his torso.

“We don’t want to wake anybody up,” she replied, kicking shoes away and shimmying off her jeans.

“You’re quick.”

“Which part?”

“Oh, the wandwork, I reckon. And the—”

“Stop talking,” Hermione pulled Ron to her.

* * *

 

“Hermione, what are—when did you get in?” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed from the sink. Several dishes were in the air, awaiting their turn to be scrubbed by a floating sponge. Hermione walked over to hug her, taking care not to bump her nose against the bottom of a soapy pot behind Mrs. Weasley’s head.

“Late last night,” Hermione smiled. “Sorry to drop by so suddenly. I took Ginny’s room.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Weasley said, ushering her to sit at the table. “Ron will be so pleased! You’ve always been family,” she said warmly, a new twinkle in her eye. Hermione looked away quickly, something in Mrs. Weasley’s tone more suggestive than usual. 

Right before she had returned to Hogwarts in September, she had endured a rather pointed conversation with wherein Mrs. Weasley had dusted off an old jewelry box and she had been shown Ron’s Great Aunt Magdalena’s engagement ring, “Just to see if it fits.”

Ron turned beet red and Ginny had quickly shut the conversation down on Hermione’s behalf. She had not spoken about it with Ron since, but she had taken his embarrassment to mean that it was far too soon to be talking about such things at all. A relief to her, if she was being frank. She’d like to finish her N.E.W.T.s and see to it that a few Death Eaters saw their days in court before doing anything like that.

Hermione nodded vaguely, clearing her throat. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, no, Arthur just left for work and he barely ate, so here, you can have his breakfast,” Mrs. Weasley waved her wand over the stove, which lifted bacon and eggs off of a pan and onto a plate on the table with a soft hiss.

Hermione sat down. “But it’s Saturday.”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “Arthur was promoted!” she exclaimed, brandishing her wand a little too forcefully. A few of the floating plates clanked together.

“Oh, how wonderful!” 

“He’s overseeing the memory spells for the muggles. The Death Eaters weren’t too careful about what they let them see. Arthur is making sure we have it all on record before sending them off on their way. Poor things,” she sighed.

“On the record,” she repeated. “So that’ll be included in the charges against them?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Weasley sat down across from her and grabbed the open copy of _The Daily Prophet_ that was sitting on the edge of the table. She skimmed the headlines. “If they ever get around to it.”

“It does seem to be taking a while.”

“Lots of politics,” Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “Everyone thinks it should be done one way or the other…”  


“I heard something about a special tribunal...on war crimes,” Hermione said hopefully, eager to see if Mrs. Weasley would confirm or deny the rumors she had seen in the news.

“Morning,” a voice came from the doorway.

“Look who’s here!” Mrs. Weasley pointed at Hermione. She hastily jumped out of her chair and hugged him, making a show of patting him on the back a few times. In his groggy stupor, he kissed her cheek and looked at her, bewildered. “That’s a nice greeting,” he mumbled.

“I got in so late last night and I thought I’d surprise you! I haven’t seen you in so long!” Hermione said loudly.

Ron cleared his throat and tugged at his maroon t-shirt, poking his thumb through a worn hole near the bottom. “Oh. Great!” he nodded vigorously. Hermione rolled her eyes at his delivery.

“Ron, you’re up far too late. Next time get here before the bacon gets cold,” Mrs. Weasley pointed at the counter.

“‘S only ten o’clock!” Ron protested.

“Is training making you feel terribly tired?” Hermione asked lightly, as though she wasn’t the reason Ron had been up late.

Mrs. Weasley jumped out of her seat with a squeak of the chair. “I think I heard someone out front. Might be a neighbor,” she ducked out of the room without looking at either of them.

Hermione frowned. Ron busied himself with the food.

“What’s wrong? Your mother’s about as good at hiding her emotions as you are. What’s happening in training?”

Ron looked after the doorway wistfully before answering. “We’re drilling shield charms. I haven’t gotten the knack of it yet.”

“Are you and Harry...having fun?” She’d noticed a marked shift in the way Ron and Harry interacted in the past year. Where Ron used to sulk at Harry’s fame, he now genuinely commiserated. It was harder for Ron to be jealous of the attention now that he was fielding owls every week — fan mail from _Witch Weekly_ subscribers.

“Harry’s really dedicated.” he said.

“If you wanted, I could go over some things with you, you can try some spells on me.”

Ron gave a little smile. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you, ‘Mione,” he added, “But you’ve been busy studying, right? For your N.E.W.T.s?”

“I’m staying on top of it,” she said airily. Hermione’s study schedule flashed to the front of her mind. If she kept up the pace she’d set for herself, she’d be ready for her second round of revisions a full month before exams. Luna and Ginny exchanged looks of bewilderment every time she took out her overstuffed planner, but she knew these tests would be the most difficult trial of her knowledge yet. Sometimes, she counted the hunt for Horcruxes in her tally. Casting simple disillusionment charms, keeping steady hold on a moving dragon, and staunching the blood from a clean splinch wound were simple tasks in isolation. Being able to undo one too many billywig stings in the latter half of a wolfsbane brew under half an hour _while_ planning on writing a written response — that, she’d have to practice. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’d love to help, and in fact, I’m sure I’d learn something myself —”

“—Hermione, thank you,” he said. “You’re so good to me,” he squeezed her hand. Ron took a deep breath, as if steeling himself to do something. “I’ve actually been thinking...of changing career paths,” he said timidly, “D’you hate that?”

She blinked. “I’m—no, Ron, of course not! But if it’s a question of skill, you _know_ I think you’re capable.”

“I thought it was that at first, too,” he sighed. “But I don’t think I’m happy. Not like Harry. He’s brilliant, you should see him duel. He even knows spells other than _Expelliarmus_ now.”

She laughed. “Well, I think it’s better to know this about yourself now, even if you don’t know what’s next.”

He fiddled with his wristwatch buckle. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I’d like to help with George’s shop. He said I could,” he added quickly.

For a moment, Hermione envisioned it: Ron in the back aisle of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, stocking the shelves and sending out order forms, making jokes to the customers. Helping George concoct ideas. It suited him and his humor.

“Well, are you happy with that?” she said.

“I think so,” Ron said, “George isn’t used to being on his own, y’know.”

“That’s really sweet of you to help him out.”

“But I mean, I want to do it, too. Even if it wasn’t about...that,” he added hastily. “And I was thinking about...you.”

“Me?”

“You could work there after you graduate, maybe,” he said all of this in one breath. “If you need something to do, I mean, not permanently of course! I know you don’t want to work in a joke shop for the rest of your life, but maybe for the summer, or a few months, and maybe if you wanted, you could live with me?” he took a deep breath. “What do you reckon?” his ears were bright crimson. He searched her face for a reaction.

She felt dazed. “Ron,” she said slowly, “I’m really touched.”

“...But you don’t want to live with me,” he finished, his face falling.

“I’m not sure what I imagined for myself after Hogwarts...” she trailed off. How could she relay what had shifted in the past year? She had worried about regressing as Harry and Ron went on to be Aurors and she, back to her studies, but something else had happened instead. At Hogwarts, she felt simultaneously inside and outside of her childhood. The way the castle enveloped her, gray and cavernous, was familiar. The rhythm of schoolwork eased her as it always had. She missed Ron and Harry.

But not as much as she thought she would have. By October, she had reclaimed her favorite armchair in front of the hearth and her evenings with Ginny and Luna felt no less full than the ones she used to have. When she couldn’t fall back asleep, she would take long walks on the hills behind the school. With so many students watching her now, she liked the ease of being alone. And she felt ready to finally leave Hogwarts, at last, on her own terms.

“I have to think about it,” she said at last. This, at least, was true.


	4. Draco

When DuBose arrived at Malfoy Manor, she was dressed in dark amber colors, her spectacles hovering daintily near her right ear, giving the eerie appearance of an invisible specter with poor eyesight peering over her shoulder.

"Let's begin with Mr. Potter's testimony. I have a few questions for you," she clicked her briefcase open—a different one than the one she had brought last, a deep brown that matched her robes. The clasps yawned open and a pile of envelopes fanned out onto the table in Draco's father's study.

Draco cleared his throat. "About that. I haven't had a chance to read it, what with my studies," he stared at her, daring her to admonish him. The testimony had sat at his desk, unopened, mocking him, since she had last visited. But she only crossed her ankles. She plucked the hovering eyeglasses out of the air and put them on.

"I've advised many children over the duration of my career and I would suggest to you that you treat this like schoolwork as well, Mr. Malfoy. I'm not one to diminish the importance of one's studies, but this may take precedence.”

"Fine," Draco gritted his teeth.

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC v LUCIUS MALFOY, CASE No. 29345851 TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW OF HARRY POTTER

ELENA DOGE: When did you become aware of Draco Malfoy’s plot to kill Albus Dumbledore?

HARRY POTTER: In the middle of my sixth year at Hogwarts. We were classmates.

DOGE: Not friends?

POTTER: No, not friends. We, er, frequently clashed together.

DOGE: And you had grown suspicious of him separate from this?

POTTER: I’m not sure what to call it. I knew of his ties to the Death Eaters, and I had seen Lucius Malfoy with Riddle when he returned. Our...boyhood rivalry must have been part of it, but it was far more serious than that.

DOGE: And then Severus Snape killed Dumbledore, with you and Draco Malfoy present? How did Mr. Malfoy act?

POTTER: Yes, he was there. I don’t think he would have killed him. He told us how he was being blackmailed.

DOGE: He did _not_ have intent to kill Albus Dumbledore?

POTTER: Well, he did. But he didn’t. Because Riddle had said he was going to kill his family if he didn’t, you see? Er. It’s a bit complicated.

DOGE: And Draco Malfoy spent the year attempting to break Hogwarts’ security measures, as per your statement.

POTTER: Yes. Dumbledore offered to help the Malfoys, but he refused—

DOGE: He?

POTTER: Draco. He said no.

DOGE: So the Malfoys’ alliances did indeed lie with the Dark Lord?

POTTER: The Malfoys regretted following Tom Riddle far earlier than the final battle at Hogwarts. Narcissa Malfoy aiding me in defeating Riddle was only one aspect of that. At least, that’s what I believe.  
  
DOGE: What proof do you have?

POTTER: I found Draco...crying one day. It didn’t make sense at the time, but later, I knew it was because he had been blackmailed into killing Dumbledore. He was sixteen. Do you remember being that age? I reckon he was scared and convinced his family was going to die. He should have taken Dumbledore’s offer, but I understand why he didn’t. He had a fear of Tom Riddle that few children understand.

 

Draco pushed the testimony away from him. He couldn’t read any more. "Did Potter really say all this?" he said, feeling a heat creep onto his face.

"Yes," Opal said.

"Well, I don't know how important it is to know—to know what I was doing in the—in the Hogwarts bathroom, in fact, isn't that some sort of invasion of privacy?"

"It's actually quite relevant. Would there be any witnesses we could call upon?"

"Snape," Draco spat. "But obviously that isn't possible.” He shuffled through the rest of the statement. A sentence caught his eye: _And then I used a spell I had never used before, which I later found out was a hex Severus Snape had crafted as a student_ … He met DuBose’s gaze. “Is all of this true?”

“Does something sound false to you?” DuBose’s brow furrowed.

He thought of his old professor often enough, but he naively thought there would be no other secrets to unearth after reading the interview Potter, Granger, and Weasley had given exclusively to _The Quibbler_ when the dust of the war had settled. His family didn’t subscribe, _naturally_. But he had been curious. So he had done what any other sensible prisoner would have done in his position and dangled a galleon in front of one of the younger Aurors guarding the house one day in exchange for a slightly bent copy of “In Harry Potter’s Own Words: The Quest to Defeat Lord Voldemort.”

He later realized he shouldn’t have bothered, because the commentary in the rest of the press in the weeks following had been relentless, with page after page of _The Daily Prophet_ dedicated to analysis of Potter’s journey and adulatory op-eds penned by prominent witches and wizards. 

So the rumors about Severus Snape working for Albus Dumbledore had been true. The facts were all there, corroborated by Potter, Granger, and Weasley (otherwise known to the press and public as the “Golden Trio,” a phrase which almost made Draco throw up in his mouth the first time he had read it). Strangely, the memories he had of Snape remained unchanged. It was as though the news of his old professor’s status as a spy had yet to catch up to the memories he had of him.

“Does this mean Potter is going to tell everyone how he almost hexed me to smithereens?" he said.

DuBose shuffled through her papers. “He was surprisingly forthcoming to describe an incident that portrays him so negatively. Is there anyone he may have told?"

"No," Draco said quickly. "Madame Pomfrey didn't even ask questions."

There was one other witness he could call upon, _technically_. But he immediately dismissed the notion. He was _not_ going to bother Moaning Myrtle for the first time in two years so she could correct the public record. What use would it be to have her admit to every earthly being he had ever known that he had blubbered his way through his sixth year, a pale mess of nerves and adrenaline? There were things he had told Myrtle that he could never bear to say aloud again.

And anyway, he hadn’t seen her since then. She was the type to hold a grudge. No offense, but anyone could surmise such a thing from the mere fact that she was a girl who had decided to spend all of eternity haunting the bathroom where she had been murdered. He had a feeling she wouldn’t welcome him with open arms if he wandered back into her presence. To his credit, a good chunk of his not staying in touch _could_ be attributed to being on an indefinite house arrest, but it’s not like he went out of his way to see her during his seventh year. She would be sure to bring that up.

Still, she had been his friend, plain and simple. The first time he had told her everything— _everything_ —it was only the second time they had ever spoken to each other. He had sat on a toilet seat and listened to her tell him everything about her life at Hogwarts, the days leading up to her death, the aftermath. And then it had been his turn to tell her about his life. Of course, she relished telling the story of when she died, so he would hear it many times after that. But it was a small price to pay for the ear of a willing confidant.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, I’ve worked with many teenagers before, and I can tell you that it’s never pleasant to revisit these events, particularly in an official setting. Will you be able to talk about this freely?” she asked in the most sympathetic tone he had heard her use since he had met her.

“Er,” he mumbled. “I don’t recall much about that day, to be honest. I lost a lot of blood.”

DuBose tilted her head, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I meant generally.”

It dawned on him that she felt sorry for him, and not just because Potter had once used an illegal spell to shred his skin into a bloody pulp. “Of course. I’ll be able to say anything you need me to,” he closed his eyes briefly, remembering the searing pain of it, the white hot heat as the spell had cut into his body. But it was only a memory, long gone now. She was right. He didn’t care about that. The faint scars on his torso from the day Potter had cursed him in the bathroom remained, though Snape had done his best to try to make his skin heal completely. And later, when he had regained consciousness, Snape had been there still, pacing, seething at Potter. _That_ man had been working for Dumbledore all along?

But today was not the day to think about such things.

He imagined the scars would stay with him forever, and with them the odd feeling of being proven wrong hundredfold about a man, in ways he could have never predicted or fathomed. But the pain was as meaningless and fleeting as mere flesh and bone.


	5. Hermione

A gray owl with gold-flecked eyes fluttered down to perch on the window of the Burrow kitchen. It tapped on the window with its beak and hooted in Hermione’s direction. “Me?” she asked it, pointing at herself. The owl said nothing back, only looked back at her in what seemed a more pointed way than usual. She stood, reached over the sink, and took the letter from its beak. 

Indeed, the back of the envelope had her name in typed print. The front was sealed with a large M in silver wax, the stationary heavy and creamy white. The Ministry had written to her.

_Hermione,_

_So pleased to hear your studies are going well. Lots of red tape over here, as you can imagine. I can explain more in person, but I’m sure by now you’ve heard the United States are especially unhappy with us even though they viewed Voldemort as little more than a common domestic troublemaker. I have several old wizarding families who’d like nothing more than for everyone to be put away very quietly. The lot of them were conveniently nowhere to be found during the war, but I suppose that’s how dynasties survive._

_Of course we would be able to make space for you here if you’re able to finish your studies early—do you think you can swing it? You’d be able to meet with our prosecutors who are working on the indictments beginning in the second week of May. At long last._

_We need more young people like you to work on this effort (in particular, what you said about Sirius moved me) to hold Death Eaters accountable. I hope you know that you can always contact me if you need anything. Please let me know as soon as you’re able._

_Kind Regards,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

_Minister for Magic_

“Did I just see a Ministry owl? Did the post come for me?” Ron grabbed at the envelope she’d discarded on the counter.

“It’s for me,” Hermione said, folding up the letter quickly.

“An admirer?” he rubbed her shoulder.

She didn’t want to lie to Ron. “Kingsley wrote to me.”

“Not every day that a teenage witch gets a letter from the Minister now, is it?” he grinned.

“I asked him about work at the Ministry,” she unfolded the letter carefully.

Ron raised his brows. “Anything good?”

“Sort of...yes. He wants me to work with the prosecutors in the Wizengamot’s office.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows raising.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you and I didn’t expect to hear back so soon—”

“—This is brilliant!” he swept forward and hugged her. “I knew you had something lined up, you’re too smart not to have figured something out!”

Now it was her turn to be surprised. “I didn’t realize you would be so excited.”

“Excited? I’d be bouncing off the walls if mum weren’t in the other room,” he whispered, grinning. “It’s perfect.”

“Perfect?” she squeaked.

“Yeah, Diagon Alley’s so close to the Ministry, from George’s shop it’ll be an easy enough commute to get to the London entrance. Dad takes it all the time.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She suddenly felt awful.

“What?”

“Well, I _will_ be at the Ministry after Hogwarts, but I hadn’t figured out where to live. Kingsley’s got so many things planned, Ron, it could really—”

“That’s why it’s so perfect,” he said. “And, I dunno, I was thinking, maybe we could settle down in London eventually since I’ve already spent my whole life in the countryside, what do you reckon?”

“Settle down?” Hermione said softly. “Do you mean like—”

“Well, yeah. You know what I mean,” he smiled sheepishly. She tried to configure her expression into one of joy and not complete surprise. She thought back to the look on his face when Mrs. Weasley had taken out that jewelry box on a late summer afternoon. Had she utterly misread his expression? Perhaps their many months apart had been a bad idea.

“I don’t know if I’d want to live together until after all of this is over,” she said carefully. She folded up the letter from Kingsley.

“Alright,” he frowned. “Then come stay with me whenever you’re done.”

“It’s not so simple. There are...a lot of people. It could take years.”

“ _Years_? To try Umbridge? Her orderlies?” he asked, baffled. “How long is it going to take to throw _them_ in Azkaban?”

“And the Malfoys, and the Carrows, and whatever other Death Eaters—”

“—But Hermione,” Ron said quietly. “Alecto Carrow’s dead.”

“Right, but his sister—”

“—And you think Umbridge and the lot of them _won’t_ be found guilty?”

“Of course they will be!” she shook her head. “Don’t you want that to happen?”

“Yes, but why wait around? Most of the Death Eaters are dead, and the few who aren’t, well, maybe the world would be better off if they had stuffed it!”

“But they have to be _tried_. You know Sirius didn’t even get a trial?”

“Sirius is dead too.”

She bristled. “I know that! But his record still says that he was a murderer, don’t you think we should fix that?”

“You don’t have to be the one to do all this.”

“But I want to.”

“My parents were married by the time they were our age.”

“So you do want to get married...soon?” she said.

“Well, not tomorrow, but…” Ron shrugged. “Don’t you?”

“I haven’t thought that far yet,” she said in what she hoped was an honest tone, not a pessimistic one. “I didn’t know you had.”

“Life’s so short, Hermione,” he took her hand in his. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last two years.”

She stared at him, bewildered that he would say such a thing to her. Hadn’t he come to Australia with her to bring her parents home? Hadn’t he seen the way she had made sure to protect them in case she was killed?

“Fred wanted to get married, did you know that? They found the ring on him,” he said quietly.

“It’s not the same for us,” she said softly, slipping her hand away from his. “Please, see it from my perspective. You’re still in Auror training, surrounded by only a few people who at least see you as a person and not as some kind of untouchable celebrity—how often do people ask you about me?”

“I talk about you all the time!” Ron protested.

“Yes, I talk about you too! But for every person who asks me about my studies, there are ten more people who just want to know if I’m ready to get married—”

“You just said you’ve never thought about marriage,” Ron said accusingly.

“That’s right, but I _have_ thought about all the things I’d rather do first. Girls my age, the ones I grew up with, and the ones _we_ grew up with at Hogwarts, they aren’t living with their boyfriends yet, they’re working and going to school and moving into flats with their friends.”

“You’re not like them,” he said, so plainly and earnestly that it was clear he meant it as a compliment.

“I am!” she protested. “I’d like to be.”

His face twinged with hurt. “Alright. It sounds like you’ve already made your decision,” he said finally, turning away from her. She wondered if Ron was with her or lost in his mind, elsewhere. They sat like that, motionless, before she settled her gaze on a piece of furniture that had always been in the kitchen. Together they both watched the odd, worn clock that Hermione had always admired, one hand of the nine stuck as though it were broken.

**Author's Note:**

> Have been working on this for a while. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
